Broken Walls
by A. Heimby
Summary: When will the horrible things Sherlock see's finally get to him, and how will John cope when they do?
1. Chapter 1

It had started out as a favor for Lestrade. At first glance the case had seemed absolutely and utterly boring to Sherlock, but John convinced him to do something nice for the DI, and now there was nothing that the good doctor regretted more.

About half way through the case the suspect learned that the police were getting close to him, so he decided to up his game, in a way even Sherlock did not see coming, at least not to this extent. As they pulled up in front of the suspects flat, a rather old and shabby looking building, the suspect himself came running out and everybody stopped dead in their tracks, most of all Lestrade, who almost fell at the sight.

Jeff, the suspect, was holding onto a little girl's upper arm with his left hand, and was holding a knife up to her throat with his right. However, it wasn't the sight necessarily that froze them all but what the little girl had yelled out to Lestrade.

"Daddy! Help me! Please Daddy!" She was sobbing and reaching her hand out to her father, who was in turn staring at her with utter horror, his hand outstretched, as if he thought if he tried a little bit harder he could reach her and keep her safe from this horrid man. Jeff had learned who was on his case and had taken the most important thing in the world to the Inspector, his little girl, his only daughter and child. His Eliza.

It was quiet for far too long before Lestrade managed to speak. He whispered, "Eliza." Then with a sob he pleaded, "Please let her go. She's not involved. Please just let her go and don't hurt her." There were tears running down Lestrade's cheeks as he whispered desperately, "Please!" No one even bothered bringing their guns up. Lestrade's little girl was being used as an effective shield. No one would point their gun in the little girls direction.

Jeff laughed a horrible laugh that spoke of his cruelty and ignorance, and bellowed in a triumphant ignorant voice, "You know what I want Detective. You can have…this thing," he looked down at the little girl in disgust, "if you let me go and promise not to come after me." He made a fake pouty face, "Or I can just kill little Elizabeth right now, so you can watch her die, if you'd prefer." A wicked and repulsive smile spread across his face.

No one noticed Sherlock disappear. John had rushed forward to keep Lestrade on his feet after the little girls appearance. Sherlock had snuck around the back of the building and pulled himself through a window that was poorly locked. He swiftly and silently crept through the flat and was standing in the doorway as Jeff brought the knife up to slash the little girl's throat. Lestrade, crying, pleaded with the man, "Please, I'll let you go, you'll walk free, and no one will come after you, I promise! Just please don't hurt her, don't hurt my baby girl! Please…" But Jeff wanted to kill her now; he wanted to see the pain it would cause everybody watching his little show, especially the Detective Inspector. Sherlock could read this from behind the man so he did not hesitate. He strode forward and brought the gun he had taken off John level with the man's head and pulled the trigger.

As the man fell forward Sherlock grabbed the back of his pullover and pushed him to the side so he would not fall on little Elizabeth. Within a second Lestrade had run to his little girl and scooped her up in his arms, giving her the tightest hug he could without hurting her. John was right at his heels, and after making sure little Elizabeth was okay, physically at least, and making sure Jeff was truly dead, he slowly approached his friend who was standing as still as a statue, a gun dangling from his hand at his side.

John could actually see everything running through Sherlock's mind for once, the carefully crafted walls were gone, and that scared him. He knew how important those walls were to Sherlock. He'd only ever seen them slip slightly a few times for only brief glimpses, and that was something hardly anybody could say when it came to Sherlock, but now, now there simply were no walls. They had completely crumbled; they had come crashing down the second Sherlock pulled that trigger. John took the gun from Sherlock's hand and put it back where he had had it before Sherlock pilfered it.

Sherlock looked broken as John stared into his eyes, and he didn't know that to do. He didn't know how to fix a broken Sherlock. John could see almost every negative emotion a person can possibly feel on his friends face, all at once. John couldn't think of anything to say so he took Sherlock's hand that had been holding the gun, it was shaking, and led him away from the scene. He knew that technically Sherlock had to stay to give his statement, but he also knew that Sherlock needed to be away from the dead man, and he trusted Lestrade to understand that.

And Lestrade did understand, as did every other officer there. As John was leading Sherlock away even Donavon gave Sherlock a faint smile, the most she could muster in the situation, and a nod of the head. No matter how much she normally loved to give him a hard time, and call him a freak, she had to admit that what he had just done was something she'd never be able to do. She would never have been able to save Lestrade's little girl.

It was silently decided that no one would bother Sherlock or John until the next day and they stayed true to that decision. It was Lestrade, accompanied by his daughter, that showed up the next day at 221B Baker St. John answered the door looking exhausted. Trying to sound cheerful Lestrade greeted him, "Hello John. How is he?" His smile faltered briefly, "I have to take his statement. I'm afraid it can't wait any longer."

John stared at him blankly for a moment before starting a little and saying, "Oh…ya…kay. He's upstairs in the flat." He paused before adding, "Come on in." As Lestrade walked passed him and started up the stairs Elizabeth turned back to John and put her hand out, startling him so much he jumped a little at the little girl's rapid movement.

"I'm Elizabeth Lilly Lestrade, but most people call me Eliza or Ell. We didn't really meet properly before you and Mr. Sherlock were gone." She half-heartedly smiled up at John, obviously still suffering quite a bit from the turmoil of the day before.

John took her hand and gently shook it; rather amused by how grown up the eight year old was acting. "Dr. John Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you Miss. Lestrade." He gave her his most warm and comforting smile. Elizabeth's smile became more truthful, and she walked up the stairs, still holding John's hand as they did.

When they entered the room Lestrade was standing off to the side of the door as if he didn't want to wander further in. John understood he was nervous about disturbing Sherlock, so letting go of Elizabeth's hand he strode forward, putting his hand and Lestrade's shoulder briefly, before getting to the windowsill Sherlock was sitting in, as he blankly staring out the window. John put his hand on Sherlock's back before speaking.

In a soft voice he said, "Sherlock. Lestrade has to take your statement now. He's very sorry, but it can't be put off any longer." John paused when Sherlock showed no sign of movement and added, while moving his hand to squeeze Sherlock's shoulder lightly, "He brought Elizabeth with him." That seemed to work as Sherlock moved his eyes from the window to look at John, then Lestrade, and finally settled on the little girl he had saved. She was beaming up at him from behind John, as she had crept forward and taken his hand again. Sherlock faintly smiled back. She took this as enough of an encouragement to leap forward, while still not letting go of John's hand, and hug the Consulting Detective from the side, awkwardly as he was still seated, and john's hand was stuck in the middle of it. At first Sherlock was startled, but a real smile crept on his face as he hugged the little girl, and John's hand, back.

After a moment Lestrade cleared his throat and John took this as his cue and said, "Well then, Eliza, there is a lady down stairs that can't wait to meet you. What do you say we go and pay her a visit while Mr. Sherlock and your father have a chat about work stuff?" Elizabeth nodded enthusiastically and the good doctor and the little girl were soon from the room, gone to see Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock and Lestrade were silent for a moment before the DI spoke, half whispering, "Thank you Sherlock…for saving my little girl. I don't know what would have happened, what I would have done if anything had happened to her." He looked up from the spot of the floor he had been staring at and looked Sherlock in his grey-blue eyes. He tried his best to smile despite the last twenty four hours.

Elizabeth and John had hot coco with Mrs. Hudson as the detectives relived the moments they most wanted to forget, and soon John, Sherlock, and Lestrade found themselves stuck in a group hug with the little girl as they said good bye outside of the flat.

"See ya later Greg." John bent down so he was more level with Elisabeth and extended his hand to her, "Again it was a pleasure to meet you Miss. Lestrade." He offered the same warm comforting smile as she took his hand and shook it before trapping him in another hug. John made her feel safe and comfortable, like he was one of her uncles.

Then she walked over to Sherlock and pulled on his sleeve so that she could give him a hug too. He bent down and gave her a hug as she whispered an almost silent thank you in his ear. Then Lestrade was holding her in his arms as they retreated back to his car and she yelled back to the two men, "Bye Uncle Sherlock! Bye Uncle John! See you later!" Then smiling she added, "Love you!"

The two men could not help but smile as they yelled back across the street, "Bye Elizabeth! Love you too!" It did not seem out of place to hear John say this to someone, but strangely, in this case, it seemed just as natural for Sherlock to be saying it too. They may not have known the little girl long, but in the short time they had all been through a lot together.

The glow the little girl left behind did not last long however. Both men were exhausted. John had spent the whole of the night in the sitting room keeping Sherlock company as the man could not find sleep. The moment that they got back inside the flat John went to make more tea, and Sherlock collapsed on the couch. He was asleep by the time John came in with two cups. He placed Sherlock's down on the coffee table as he sat down in his armchair to read a book. The detective had been asleep for a good hour before he started fidgeting. He was making a face like he was about to cry, and he kept mumbling things like no, don't, and stop. It was obvious the man was having a nightmare so John put his book down next to Sherlock's now cold tea, and tried to wake him. "Sherlock, wake up. It's just a nightmare." He shook his shoulder a little. That seemed to make the nightmare ten times worse as it caused Sherlock to yell out in his sleep. John panicked a little, knowing what it's like to be stuck in a nightmare, so he sat down next to Sherlock on the couch and shook both of his shoulder. "Sherlock, you have to wake up, it's just a nightmare. Wake up Sherlock!" He was starting to sound hysterical.

Finally Sherlock jolted awake, sitting up, and almost head butting John. When he was able to get hold of his mind he could see John looking at him with that parental concern Sherlock had seen so often when John was talking to the family of a victim. That's when Sherlock realized he had been crying in his sleep, and to his horror, he had not stopped when he awoke. John saw this and wrapped Sherlock in a hug, holding his head to his chest as Sherlock curled up against him like a little boy might and cried. John was flattered that Sherlock was letting him comfort him like this, but it was heartbreaking to see the detective so utterly broken.

Sherlock fell asleep again as John soothed him, rubbing his back, and keeping one hand on Sherlock's head to keep it against his chest as he hugged the gangly detective close to him. The nightmares did not come back, and John stayed like that for hours, fearing if he moved he would wake him up. He didn't mind. He just sat there, Sherlock cradled against him, as he read his book or just used the time to think. When Sherlock did wake up he at least seemed rested. John could still see everything going through his mind, but at least he had gotten some sleep.

Sherlock seemed a little embarrassed at what he would call a display of weakness, but still sent John a silent thank you for being there to comfort him. He had never been so grateful to see John as he was when he woke up from that nightmare. No one had ever done something like that for Sherlock before. He felt guilty however; as he saw John was barely fighting off sleep. He had to let the doctor get some rest before he passed out so Sherlock sent him upstairs to his room for some rest and told him he would be going out anyway when John tried to protest, but when Sherlock was striding to the door he gave up the fight and headed upstairs.

When Sherlock got outside he didn't know what to do. He had not actually been planning on going out; he had simply said it to get John to go to bed. It was nearly eleven at night, what could he possibly do at that hour? He started down the street with no destination in mind when it started to rain, and he had no choice but to duck into a pub since he had not brought an umbrella. He chuckled to himself when that made him think of his strange older brother. Mycroft always had an umbrella, rain or shine. However the pleasant thought only made it worse when the horrible ones came crashing back. Sherlock figured since he was there he might as well have a drink or two or ten, he lost count.

The bartender finally cut him off after he fell off his stool. When the drunken man would not stop giggling long enough to answer any of the bartenders questions he took the man's phone off the counter where it had been sitting and hit speed dial one.

John woke to the sound of his phone going off. Someone was phoning him. No one ever phoned him, aside from his mother and father. He stared at the screen groggily for a moment before registering it said Sherlock.

A bit confused he answered, "Hello?" He was staring at the clock in confusion. It was passed one in the morning.

A voice he had never heard before came from the other end, "Aw, yes. This is Mike from the pub on Dunbar Street. I think I have one of your… uh…friends here. He is rather plastered, can't even stay up on the stool. I think he said his name is Sherlock." The man paused and John could tell he was listening to something, and just barely audible he could hear Sherlock saying his name in the background.

John could not believe what he was hearing, but at the same time he could. Sherlock was in a bad state; John should have known he would try to turn to something. "At least he didn't turn back to drugs." John thought to himself. Sighing he told the bartender he would be there in a few minutes to pick his friend up.

The second that John came through the door he was greeted with a very loud, and slurred, "JAAAWWWWNNNN!" from Sherlock. The detective staggered over to him and put his arm around his shoulder, mostly to steady himself. Then he announced to the few people left in the pub, "Jaaawwwn is a doctor. He's my liddle blogger!" Then looking at John like you might a dog that just did a trick he said, "Aren't ya Jawn?" Then he smiled and started to fall forward. John caught the half unconscious man and after a quick thank you to Mike he was half dragging Sherlock home.

As John helped Sherlock out of his shoes and socks he tried not to be reminded of Harry. He tried not to draw any parallels between her and his friend. He just tried to be understanding, for he truly did understand. John himself was scarred from what had happened outside that rutty flat, and he wasn't even the one who had to pull the trigger. He understood why Sherlock was breaking and was determined to fix him, even if it meant the walls went back up and he would lose all of the insight he had been getting of his friend since that day.

John made sure that Sherlock fell asleep on his side; making a wall of pillow's behind his back so he could not roll over in the night. John new what to do, he had done it hundreds of times for Harry before. He left a bucket at the side of the bed and a glass of water on the bed stand and went to go and try to sleep himself. He wasn't asleep long before he heard the sound of feet rushing from the room below his. He swung his feet out of bed and made his way down stairs to help Sherlock, who he found in the fetal position on the ground in the bathroom. He had dealt with this part far too many times as well, so he silently sat down against the bathroom wall and put Sherlock's head in his lap as the poor detective whimpered. John fell back asleep still caressing Sherlock's hair, trying to sooth him.

John was woken up by his watch going off. It was time to go to work. Sherlock was still asleep in his lap and he wished he could phone into the surgery sick, but he knew that due to all the times he called in because of cases he was close to getting fired. He had no choice so he slipped Sherlock's head onto some towels and left the bathroom to get ready for work. When he left, Sherlock was still fast asleep so he stopped by to ask Mrs. Hudson to check on him every once in a while.

John spent his day distracted, only finding enough energy to actually focus when he had a real patient in front of him. Mycroft wouldn't stop phoning him, and making him repeat everything, from what happened outside that rutty flat to John having to retrieve a drunken Sherlock from the pub, and spending the night comforting the man. Mycroft didn't make John focus on the first part though, he was more interested in the fact his brother had been drunk.

"What do you mean he couldn't stand straight? Do you mean that literally or figuratively?" Mycroft sounded more curious than concerned.

"Well, both, really. He was gone mentally, at least as gone as a genius can be, and I had to literally hold him up all the way to the flat, and up the stairs, until he collapsed into bed." John was tired of repeating himself so with a sigh he said, "I really do have to go Mycroft. I have to get back home to make sure your brother is okay. I highly doubt he is accustomed to the hangover he is bound to have."

Reluctantly Mycroft let him go with a final, and surprisingly genuine, "Thank you John, for being there for my little brother. I don't think anybody has ever been there for him like that, and I doubt he would let anybody else close enough to help anyway." With that he hung up and John was left gawking at his phone for a moment before grabbing his beige jumper off the back of his chair and heading home.

He arrived to the smell of bacon cooking and curiously wandered over to the kitchen. Sherlock was darting about making what appeared to be breakfast at five in the afternoon. Sherlock didn't look up at John from the bacon he was flipping but motioned for him to take a seat. Sitting down John asked, "When did you wake up Sherlock?"

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently and answered, "I don't know, three hours ago maybe."

He was really focusing on the bacon, but that did not stop John from asking, "Why are you making breakfast at five in the afternoon? Or better yet, why are you cooking at all?"

Sherlock put the bacon on a plate and put it on the table with the egg's, toast, hash browns, and orange juice that were already there. He sat down before answering rather sheepishly, "Well, I know that you missed breakfast this morning so I wanted to make it up to you. After all it was my fault." He looked down at the fork he was fiddling with, "and I also wanted to thank you for, you know, all you've done for me. Not only the last little while, but since I met you in the lab at Barts." Looking up at John, who was completely dumb struck, he added, "So thank you John."

John managed to pull himself together enough to say, "Your welcome Sherlock." Then he was handed a plate full of all of his favorite breakfast foods, he wondered briefly if Sherlock knew that before telling himself, 'Of course he knows that, it's Sherlock', and digging into his meal with a satisfied feeling as he saw Sherlock actually eating as well. John tried to tell himself that things would be okay now.

But he was mistaken. That night John was woken up by his friend screaming in his sleep. He ran down to Sherlock's room as fast as he could, nearly falling down the stairs, and found the poor man sitting up, wide eyed with fear, and once again there were tears on his face. John didn't hesitate, but went to Sherlock's bedside and sat on the edge. He put his hand on Sherlock's back and asked, knowing what the answer would be, "What's wrong?", then before waiting for the answer asked, "What's happening in your nightmares?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he just looked at his friend as more tears threatened to break loose, so John moved so he was half propped up against the beds backboard and brought Sherlock into another hug, putting the detective's head against his chest again. Stroking Sherlock's hair. He had just given up on getting an answer when Sherlock whispered, "I keep dreaming that I hesitate, and he kill's her, and then Lestrade pulls out his gun, and he…he… he winds up dead too, and it's like I can't move. I'm just watching as everybody either kills themselves, or HE kills them. Then it's just us. You, me, and HIM." Sherlock stopped for a moment, every time he mentioned Jeff it was with a disgusted voice. He took in a deep breath, "Then he has the knife to your throat, and I'm behind him again, but it's like I can't pull the trigger, no matter how hard I try, and he…he…he kills you John," Sherlock was sobbing, and he whispered, "He killed you." John wrapped his arms around him tighter.

Resting his chin on Sherlock's head he whispered back, in the most soothing and comforting voice he had ever used, "It's okay Sherlock. I'm here. I'm alive, and so is Elizabeth, and Greg, thanks to you. THAT MAN," He used the same voice of disgust, "is dead, and he won't ever hurt anybody again." But John was wrong, and he knew it. Even though the man was dead he was hurting Sherlock right now, and John. Greg and his daughter would be scarred for life, as would most everybody who was there that day. But mostly he was hurting Sherlock, and for that reason John would never stop cursing the man who had caused all of this.

Sherlock fell asleep in John's arms as he continued to stroke his hair and whisper every soothing thing he could think of. Eventually John found himself falling asleep too and welcomed it gratefully, but to soon found his watch going off again, telling him it was time for work. He gently removed the still sleeping Sherlock from his chest and got ready for work. This time the phone calls from Mycroft started the second he had left Sherlock's room making him wonder if there were cameras around the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

John spent his entire day taking calls from Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson, who he had asked to keep an eye on Sherlock again, as well as texts from Lestrade, and Molly, and even Anderson and Donavon sent a text to inquire after Sherlock. No one even bothered a quick 'Hey what about you John, how are you holding up?' By the time John finally got off at nine, he had been doing paper work, he was fed up with the constant phone calls and texts, which were the reason he was still at work, he had been constantly interrupted, and he was ready to smash his phone as it went off again. But he counted to ten and calmed himself before answering, teeth gritted, "Hello…what is it now?"

A timid voice answered back, "John? It's Mrs. Hudson. You asked me to call you if anything happens, and well something has happened."

John mentally slapped himself for letting his anger out on Mrs. Hudson, even if it was in such a small way and apologetically said, "Oh, yes sorry Mrs. Hudson," he sighed, "What has happened now?"

Sounding a little better she replied, "Well he must have snuck off a few hours ago because some man named Mike just called me and told me that Sherlock is at the pub, and is rather drunk. I didn't even know he drank at all." She sounded hurt that she had not known this about one of her boys.

Heaving another great sigh John said, "I'm off now, I'll get him on my way back. Make sure the door is unlocked, I don't think I'll have a free hand to unlock it with."

Mrs. Hudson seemed to sigh with relief as she said, "Sure thing dear." She hung up and John was left feeling on the edge, like he was about to breakdown and fall, and that there was no one there to help him, to grab him back from the edge. He was the one who always helped everybody else; they never thought that maybe the soldier needed support too. Pushing these feelings down John left and got a taxi, and headed for the pub. Before opening the doors he let himself sigh once more, determined to be nothing but caring and understanding, or at least to appear to be so, once he was with Sherlock again.

As he walked in he was assaulted with the same loud yell of, "JAAWWWWNNN!" He held the sigh that wanted to escape his lips in his throat. Instead he just walked forward and put Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and hulled him toward the door, again giving Mike a quick thank you as they went through the door.

Again John found himself cradling Sherlock's head in his lap as he stroked his hair, and again John tried to pretend that this was nothing like what happened with Harry, nothing like how her problem had started. He pretended that when the morning came and chased away the dark that everything would be back to normal. He was woken by his watch, again, and headed to work, again, and spent the day worried about Sherlock, again, and constantly answering texts and phone calls, again. Mycroft even came into the surgery at one point when John had failed to answer a phone call when he was with a patient. He was also stuck at work far too late, again, because of all the interruptions.

He was struck with the feeling of falling, again, after another phone call from Mrs. Hudson saying that Sherlock had snuck out, again, and was drunk, again, and John said he would pick him up, again. He pushed down the feelings, again, and went to go pick up his friend, again.

He was assaulted by the yell of, "JAAWWWNNNN!" And he waved a thank you to Mike, and he spent the night sitting up against the bathroom wall, and was woken by his watch, again. This time he was still in the bathroom when the phone calls started; still cradling Sherlock's head. He somehow managed to stay civil, to keep calm. This time Mycroft would have people watching Sherlock, making sure he did not find his way to the pub again. This time John might be able to sleep in his own bed for the entire night for the first time since that day. He was running off of barely any sleep at all. But his hopes were dashed when he got a call at ten, this time directly from Mike, who apparently had decided it was necessary to have his own copy of the good doctor's number. Despite Mycroft's attempts Sherlock found a way to the pub. And the same process was repeated, again and again.

John would sleep propped up against the wall. He gave up on denial quickly. He found himself being woken up by his watch, then instantly answering phone calls and texts. He found it harder and harder to focus at work, and harder and harder to stay civil with not only those constantly bombarding him with questions about Sherlock, never himself, he didn't even get "Hi's" anymore, but at people in general. At his more annoying patients and co-workers, or even stranger's on the street. He still managed to be civil, but was one thread snap from taking it out on the unlucky sod that happened to be nearby.

Every time he got that phone call as he was about to leave he felt his heart sink. He felt himself tipping further over the edge. Not that he knew it, but everybody started to notice, they never said anything to him or each other but they noticed. It took them a long time to notice, because John had been shoving those feeling so far down, but they didn't miss the fact that the only smile they ever saw on John's face was the fake polite one he rarely used, until now. They noticed when his temper would slip slightly, and most of all they would notice the frown that would be on his face whenever he thought no one could see him. It took them a while to remember about Harry though, and realize how much John must have truly been suffering.

Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly were actually sitting in Lestrade's kitchen when Mycroft suddenly let out a breath of air and said, "Oh my god, I can't believe I forgot." The table of people looked up in confusion. He elaborated. "I forgot about Harry, John's sister, she's an alcoholic. I can't believe I forgot."

Lestrade put his head in his hands and let out a low whispered, "I'm so stupid. I should have remembered. He must be hurting so much watching Sherlock go through what his sister did, and with nothing working to keep Sherlock away from the pub he probably feels like he is failing again like he did when he finally realized he could do nothing for Harry."

That's when a small voice came from the kitchen door, "Is that why Uncle John is so sad? Because of his sister and Uncle Sherlock?"

Every head turned toward the little girl clutching a teddy bear in one hand and rubbing her eye with the other. Molly was the first to speak, "What do you mean sweetie? Why would you say he was so sad?"

Fear suddenly struck all of their hearts. If the little girl picked up on it then it must be bad. Elizabeth frowned at them and said, "Isn't it obvious. He is always frowning, and he always looks so very tired. I even heard him raise his voice at Daddy today, and Uncle John would never do that unless something was really wrong. I've only known him for a little while and I know that. Plus he started saying he had to go back to the flat instead of home today. He always calls it his home."

The four adults looked at the little girl for a moment in horror before quickly turning to each other and asking at the same time, "Have you guys noticed anything?"

Mrs. Hudson spoke first, "I noticed something the second time John had to go to get Sherlock. He answered the phone and it sounded like he had his teeth gritted, and I've been noticing little slips in his temper since, which really isn't like John."

"I've noticed he's been like that with everybody, even his patient at work." Mycroft added, like it was normal to know what John did at work.

"I've noticed the frowning quite a bit myself. He always looks so sad when he thinks no one is watching, but I haven't heard him complain." Molly said looking from each person with fear.

"He wouldn't though, would he." Lestrade sighed and asked, "Well, what did he say last time someone asked him how he was doing, how he was dealing with the whole situation?" They all stared at each other blankly. "Bloody hell, has no one asked him since the incident?" Blank stares again. They all looked to the clock, it was about the time they knew John would be getting the call, and they all just prayed that he would be able to take that call at least one more time, but those prayers were not answered.

John's phone rang, for the seventh night in a row. He tried to make himself pick it up but he couldn't. He couldn't find Sherlock like that again, broken and hurt. He couldn't handle another phone call or text. He couldn't handle another lie, another mask. He couldn't push those feelings down again. He couldn't stop himself from falling over the edge, not this time. His world was crashing in around him, and he felt alone and helpless.

He let his phone fall from his hands as he fell back against the wall, falling to his knees, crying. He couldn't handle losing another person, not like this, not again, not when they were still there, just a shell of the person they used to be. He couldn't handle mourning another person that was not even dead.

John stayed there for a while, crying, curled up into himself, wishing and praying that it would all just end. All the pain and guilt.

Mycroft got the call when John failed to answer. Every heart stopped as Mycroft answered and put it on speaker phone. "Mycroft Holmes speaking."

"Oh, yes, you're his brother. Well it appears the bloke I normally phone to come pick your brother up is not answering his phone so I thought I should phone you. Your brother is here drunk again." Mike sounded a bit awkward, but also annoyed.

Numbly Mycroft said, "I'll send someone to pick him up right away." And without waiting for a response he hung up the phone. Lestrade already had his phone out and was trying to phone John, but with no luck. The phone kept going to voice mail and after the fourth call they table jumped as Lestrade suddenly brought his hand to his mouth in shock and horror, letting out a gasp, his face going whiter than a ghost.

Silently he redialed the number and put his phone on speaker. As it started to ring he quietly said, "His outgoing message suddenly changed."

They heard a beep, then, "Stop calling me, just leave me alone. I tried to help him, but couldn't. I tried to talk to him but he wouldn't listen. I couldn't help my sister and I can't help him." There was a pause in the message and it was painfully obvious the good doctor was crying, he continued almost in a whisper, "I can't do it anymore. I can't handle this again. I can't watch this happen to another loved one…I'm sorry… I just can't do any of it anymore. Good bye. Don't waste your time leaving a message. I won't be around to phone back." Then there was another beep.

No one was breathing, not even the horror stuck little girl in the doorway that had been forgotten. Even she knew what he meant by that. Lestrade was the first on his feet, having had slightly more time to digest what he just heard. He started giving orders, the DI in him taking over. "Mrs. Hudson you go back to Baker Street for in case John comes home first. Take Elisabeth with you." Then he turned to Mycroft, "You have the resources, find out where John is, he won't stay at work long," He turned to Molly, "but for in case he is Molly go there first, and if he's not there check anywhere you can think of." He stopped for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll go and pick up Sherlock and drop him off at home, and then I'll join Molly in the search until you can come up with something Mycroft." They all nodded and were soon out the door.

John had turned his phone off after the fifth or sixth time it rang and changing the outgoing message. He left the surgery in a haze, the only other person in the building, a night guard, gave the crying man a quizzical look but felt no reason to interfere, so John wandered out into the streets and started walking, unsure of any destination. All he knew was it was away from 221B Backer Street. His feet just carried him without him telling them where to go.

Lestrade got to the pub, driving far faster than was legal, and practically flew into the pub, the doors crashing loudly as he wrenched them open. Upon recognizing Greg Sherlock yelled, "Heeeyyyy! It's Graaayyyggyyy!" But the look that Lestrade sent him got through to even a very inebriated Sherlock, and furrowing his brow he asked, "Whas wrong? Where's John?" The frown that spread over Lestrade's face sobered Sherlock enough that he did not hesitate to follow Lestrade out of the pub. Since they were only down a couple streets he did not bother trying to get Sherlock into the car, so instead he grabbed his arm and dragged him back to 221B. It wasn't until they were at the door, waiting for Mrs. Hudson, that Sherlock repeated his question rubbing his face, sounding yet more sober. "Where is John? What's wrong? What's happened?"

Lestrade said nothing but when Mrs. Hudson came to the door and Lestrade pushed Sherlock through the doorway he quietly said, "Let him hear the message." And he was gone, with a quickly yelled good bye to Elizabeth who Sherlock now saw standing by the stairs.

He looked at the little girl for a moment, before looking back at Mrs. Hudson and asking, "What message?" She just frowned at him and led him into her own flat. She sat across from him and he asked again, fear sobering him, "Where's John?"

Mrs. Hudson said nothing, she just took out her phone and dialed a number, John's number, he recognized. Then the message started, and Sherlock's heart stopped beating for a second as he listened to John's last words. He was completely sober now. He couldn't move. Then a small voice reached his ears.

"He just wanted to help you so much Uncle Sherlock. He cares too much about you to see you like this, and not be able to stop your pain. He feels like he failed you somehow and he can't handle that." Elizabeth was holding his hand, trying to sooth him. It reminded Sherlock so much of John. He could feel a tear fall down his cheek.

He tried to offer the little girl a smile, and then he turned to Mrs. Hudson and asked, "So what is the plan. What's going on? How are we going to stop him from…from…?" He went silent, unable to finish the sentence.

"Well, dear, Mycroft is trying to use his resources to find him; meanwhile Molly and Greg are out there looking everywhere they can think of that he might go." She looked worried.

"But they don't really know John, how would they know where to look?" He looked at Mrs. Hudson, and to Sherlock's surprise she looked positively pissed off.

"Well you were kind of in dispose, off at that pub, drunk off your arse, which is the whole reason we are in this mess!" The old lady raised her voice yet louder, "How could you do that to him Sherlock! You know about his sister! You know what he went through, you where there for the end!" Then she was whispering, tears in her eyes, "How could you hurt John like that?"

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. He really messed up this time. He could feel tears flowing down his cheeks as he got up, and squeezed Elizabeth's hand before letting go and heading for the door. "And where are you going now?" It was an accusing tone, but Sherlock could not blame Mrs. Hudson for it.

Not turning around he said quietly, "I know where John would go." Then he left, swooping down the street, his coat billowing behind him as he ran.

John hadn't realized where he was headed until he was looking up at St. Barts. He had no problem getting in, sneaking past the guards easily, from the many times Sherlock snuck into the place after hours, dragging John behind him. He went to the lab where it had all started; where he had first met Sherlock Holmes.

He fell to his knees and started crying again. He really couldn't handle it anymore. He knew what would happen to Sherlock, to him if he stayed and couldn't help, and he just couldn't do that again, but he also couldn't just abandon Sherlock and run off somewhere. John felt like he had run out of options. He'd have to leave the world permanently. He was just going over how to do it when the door burst open and a dark figure came crashing into the room.

Before John knew it Sherlock has on his knees at his side. "John! Oh it is you! I found you!" He wrapped the shorter man in a hug that was a little too tight as he continued to ramble, "Are you okay John? I can't believe I found you! And on time, wait…" Sherlock's body went rigged and he drew back enough to see John face, "I am on time right? I'm not too late? Do I need to call an ambulance?" He was getting hysterical.

John just stared at him blankly, tears running down his face still, while Sherlock tried to catch his breath for the first time since running out of Mrs. Hudson's flat. Quietly John said, "No." And Sherlock looked deeper into his friends eyes and truly saw how much he was suffering, how much pain he was in, and it was his fault, Sherlock had caused it.

Sherlock felt tears on his face again as he whispered, "Please John. I didn't mean to hurt you. I never meant to, I just wanted the nightmares to stop. I couldn't watch you die again."

John got really angry. His face went from blank to red with rage, and he yelled, "So you made me watch YOU die! You made me watch as you slowly killed yourself!" Suddenly he started to whisper, "You made me watch you slowly die like I have to do with my sister."

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He had broken John. He didn't know how to help, or what to say. Whispering he said, "I'm sorry John, I wasn't thinking about that. I was just trying to make the nightmares go away. I couldn't handle them, and they woke you up. It was the only thing that made them go away…"

John looked down from Sherlock's gaze, and whispered so quietly Sherlock barely heard him. "I made them go away. You slept fine when I was helping you."

"But I couldn't just keep waking you up." Now it was Sherlock how had a blank stare on his face as he realized the irony in his actions. In trying to deal with his problem himself to spear John he had created bigger problems for the good doctor, he had made it so he lost even more sleep.

Sherlock was still broken, he still had no walls, so John saw the realization hit him, and still whispering he said, "I didn't mind getting up to comfort you Sherlock." John was still crying as he looked down at his knees. Then all of a sudden he felt Sherlock pulling him over slightly as the detective leaned against a cupboard. Sherlock put John head on his chest, just like John had done for him, and started to rub his back and stroke his hair.

"It's okay John. You don't have to worry anymore. I'm here. I'll never drink again if that's what it takes to make you feel better. I'll always be here for you." He rested his chin on John head as tears continued to fall down both of their cheeks but Sherlock could feel John relaxing. He gave his doctor a tight hug as he drifted off to sleep, his first proper sleep in a long time.

Twenty minutes later Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, and even Elizabeth came crashing through the door but where quickly shushed by Sherlock. They were all overwhelmed by the relief of seeing John safe and sound, not to mention Sherlock sober, and were overcome by tiredness. Elisabeth was the first one to move. She went over to the sleeping doctor and laid half against Sherlock, half against John and was almost instantly asleep. Then Lestrade came over to put an arm around his daughter, leaning back against the cupboard. Mrs. Hudson was quickly at his side, using his shoulder as a pillow, and drifting off to sleep. Mycroft sat down at his brother's side and put his hand on his shoulder, sending him a rare caring smile that Sherlock could not help but return. Then he beckoned Molly over, who was standing awkwardly, not knowing what to do, and Mycroft let her use him as a pillow as well. Soon they were all fast asleep.

Their problems weren't over, and they would still never forget that day, or this day, but at least now they all know that they were there for each other, and that they would always be there to bring each other back from the edge.


End file.
